


Reading Madness

by DrunkenWinky



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Cooking Sherry, Discord: Dumbledore's Armada, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, One Shot, Sybill has a drinking problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28037748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrunkenWinky/pseuds/DrunkenWinky
Summary: Sybill Trelawney is not having a great evening. No one will heed her warnings, nor will they acknowledge her gift. She's at her wits end. And, unfortunately for her, she's also at the bottom of her second sherry bottle.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 21
Collections: Judged by the Cover





	Reading Madness

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [ravenslight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight) in the [judgedbythecover](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/judgedbythecover) collection. 



> Written for Dumbledore's Armada Flast Comp: Judged by the Cover. Thank you to ravenslight for hosting such a fun comp! 
> 
> Prompt:
> 
> Practical Palmistry

Sybill Trelawney was not having a great evening.

She slouched low in her comfy, overstuffed chair, tucked and hidden away from having to deal with most of the inhabitants of the castle she called home. 

Here, in her private quarters located above her Divinations classroom in the North Tower, she was free from the small minded, skeptical eyes that followed her, judging her whichever way she went.

Here, in her warm cozy rooms, incense smoke turning the air around her hazy, the yellow light from the wall sconces refracting in the crystals she’d hung from the towers eves, throwing hundreds of colorful rainbows across the swaths of bright fabric draped across the trusses, was where Sybill felt most safe. Most secure.

And most able to stew in her rejection. 

The second Welcoming Feast of the year had ended just hours before, the Headmaster having sent off the students and the TriWizard Tournament’s esteemed guests to their nightly dwellings, and already the dark shadows in the Seers mind were whirling.

She had tried, time and time again, to warn the Headmaster that the current positions of the moons of Jupiter spelled certain doom for the competition and children’s safety. But, as always, the great wizard had simply waved his hand, dismissing her visions and premonitions as poppycock.

Which, in and of itself, was utter poppycock.

Sybill sighed, placing her faded and stained copy of Practical Palmistry face down on the end table beside her, reaching instead for her almost finished, second-of-the-night bottle of cooking sherry. She didn’t know what else was to be expected of her at this point. With the Sight came great responsibilities, it was true, but what good was the gift when no one would heed your warnings?

She thought back, taking another delightful sip of the dry, nutty contents of the bottle and mused that, maybe, _some_ good would come from this year. When the unusually large French woman had entered the Great Hall for the feast, Sybill had caught a glimpse of a future romantic endeavor for the handsome lady. 

Which...was _odd_ , since she’d foreseen a similar future for her equally colossal colleague. 

Sybill shook her head, which spun slightly as ringing filled her ears, the cooking sherry’s low alcohol content finally catching up to her. 

“To love!” she called out to her empty tower room, holding the bottle out in front of her as she toasted to the fates of the two enormous people. “May the deities guide two strangers to Hagrid and Madame Maxime! May the two couples experience nothing but happiness and untroubled times!”

Bringing the bottle’s opening to her lips, she again threw back her head, fully intent on gulping the remaining drink down to seal her toast's intentions. When no liquid met her tongue, she cracked an eye, quickly discovering that the bottle was empty.

“Well,” she hiccuped, “it’s the thought that counts…”

Rising from her arm chair, she staggered slightly on her feet, allowing them to clumsily carry her across the small, cramped room and to her wardrobe. She landed against the wooden surface with a thud, giggling to herself as she threw the doors wide.

Three empty sherry bottles spilled out from the cabinet, rolling across the small space to nudge at her feet.

“ _Blast,_ ” she hissed, bending over to reach for the bottles, collecting them in her arms as shame colored her cheeks. Only two months into the new school year, and already she’d had to visit the Room of Hidden things _thrice_ to dispose of the evidence of her habit—since the bleeding elves had stopped assisting her with her dirty little secret long ago. 

Muttering a selection of choice words under her breath to the little unhelpful blighters, Sybill gathered the three bottles to herself, casting a longing look back at the several full bottles still nestled in the wardrobe. 

She carefully made her way towards the trap door that led down into her classroom, and as she snatched up the other two empty bottles she had finished that evening from the end table, her eyes briefly landed on the book she’d been perusing. With yet another sigh, the Seer reasoned that lesson planning would just have to wait.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Getting to the Room of Hidden things was always a challenge. Firstly, because Sybill had to trapeze down two trap doors with her arms full of bottles. Secondly, because she had to avoid being seen. 

As a Professor, she was allowed free roam of the castle at any time. However, when she did venture down from her nest, she was often carrying more than what was an acceptable number of empty wine bottles, so it was in her best interest not to be seen.

Sybill had often had to call upon her third eye, predicting just when and where her fellow Professors were as she dashed from alcove to alcove, and more than once she’d had a close call. But, still, no one had ever caught her, and she couldn’t figure out if that was something to be proud or ashamed of.

Ignominious task finished for the evening, she closed the door to the magical room and watched it vanish from sight. A sweet moment of relief rushed through her tipsy brain, and a small smile stole at her lips in what was a rare moment of pride. 

“Evening, Trelawney,”

_Or not._

Whirling on her heels, hand flying to her bosom, Sybill came face to chest with Alastor Moody, whose magical eye was dead fixed on the wall behind her.

“What were you doing in _there_?” he questioned, nodding back towards where she’d just come from. A cold sweat broke out across the back of her neck. 

Of all the people in this ruddy castle to have caught her, it just had to be the former Auror with a magical eye that could see through walls, didn’t it?

It was humiliating. No, worse than humiliating— _mortifying_.

“P-Professor Moody,” she squeaked in an attempt at a casual greeting, cursing her intuition for failing her so miserably.

Moody didn’t seem to hear her, as he pushed past to stand before the wall, placing his hand on the cold stone before him.

“This seems like a terribly dangerous room to be housed in a school for magical children,” he muttered to himself, the fake optical ball rolling violently around in its leather stitched socket.

What it was seeing, Sybill couldn’t begin to fathom, but from the interested and curious look on his face, she’d wager he was seeing more than the five empty sherry bottles she’d just stashed there.

“—and too terribly dangerous of a room to be venturing in on your own.”

Although he hadn’t bothered to turn, she knew his last statement was directed at her. Fear quickly ebbed away as the ridiculousness of his words took root in her mind, and she couldn’t help the hysterical giggle that bubbled from her lips.

_“ Dangerous?_ _”_ she repeated. “I believe you are mistaken, Alastor. The most dangerous thing I’ve encountered in there was a nest of doxies!”

Again, the laughter pulled from her chest, but it appeared the old Auror didn’t find it nearly as humorous as she.

He was an enigma, Alastor Moody. Usually when a person entered Sybill’s presence, she got a sort of air about them. Sometimes just a whisper, sometimes a deafening roar, but it wasn’t very often she heard nothing from the beyond. 

But from the man before her, the beyond hadn’t made a peep the few times they’d crossed paths. 

When he finally turned away from the wall to face her, his mouth set in a hard line and brows furrowed in a look of annoyance, Sybill’s eyes trailed along his arm and down to his hands. 

The cover of Practical Palmistry flashed in her mind, it’s bright crimson cover burning red hot, as if it were ablaze before her. The lines that outlined the diagram hand on its cover began to bleed, running together and creating an ominous image. 

_Read him_ , the voice in her head whispered.

Sybill Trelawney knew that voice. Had been woken out of a dead sleep by that voice. Been directed down paths in life she’d never have willingly taken because of that voice. 

She never ignored that voice.

On impulse or out of habit, she wasn’t sure, she reached out, grasping at the mans hand, allowing the powers at be to guide her to do their bidding.

“Have you ever had your palm read before, Alastor?” she asked, her voice taking on that breathy and airy quality she had long ago associated with being in tune with the energies of fate.

“What are you—? Get off me—” Moody tried to protest, but it was weak at best. Glancing up at his face, Sybill saw a faint flash of something in his eye. 

Intrigue? 

Fear? 

Whatever it was, it allowed the feeble grasp she had on his hand to hold, and she once again lowered her gaze back to his palm.

“You have Fire hands,” she whispered, turning his hand over in her own.

“A rarer hand shape, for certain, but it's evident by the whorls on your finger tips, and the length of your palm compared to your fingers…” she trailed off, dragging her gaze over the many puckered, silver scars that dotted his skin.

“People with fire hands are often more prone to accidents and injuries,” she whispered, and at this she felt a chuckle from Moody. 

“Might be right there,” he grunted, his voice tight as if her inspection was causing him some sort of pain.

“Your heart line intersects with your fate line here,” she mumbled, tracing the wrinkles in his palm across the length of it. “Meaning your success is tightly tied with your loyalty. And here, it breaks off, as if suggesting—”

Sybill stopped, almost unbelieving in what she was seeing.

The lines on Alastor Moody’s hand were... _moving._

Fading and sharpening, growing and shrinking, the lines began to twitch and whirl before her eyes. A hundred different possibilities, different lives, different endings and beginnings disappeared and appeared, tragedy and success fighting one another for dominance of this man’s fate.

Bewildered and beyond confused, Sybill’s eyes rose to meet Moody’s, one dark and one electric blue staring back into her own light green. 

Movement distracted her from his stare, and glancing down she watched as his tongue darted out, wetting his lips in a way that was aggressive—almost animalistic.

It was then the beyond decided to communicate with her. And communicate, it did.

_Pain._

_Suffering._

_A dark shadow fallen across a scared, lonely boy._

_A mothers love. A fathers neglect._

_A resentful hatred so strong, so suffocating in its intensity that it was staggering._

_A man. An extraordinary, powerful man._

_A longing for belonging. A promise. Cold. Pain. Suffering. Waiting. Suffering. Waiting._

**_Freedom._ **

_A plan._

_A terrible, horrible plan._

Sybill ripped her hand from Alastor’s, stumbling back a step, never allowing her eyes to leave his form. She watched as he pulled a flask from his pocket, flicking back the stopper and taking a long, thick sounding drag of its contents. A shutter raced through him, clearly disgusted by the taste of whatever his drink of choice was, before he stilled and fixed her with a stare.

“Alright, Sybill?” he questioned, voice sounding just as it had moments before, seemingly unaffected by her reaction.

“See my death, did you?” he asked in a mocking tone, chuckling to himself, stalking past the shaken witch. Sybill brought her trembling fingers to her lips, trying to make sense of the visions she’d just seen.

“Lay off the sherry, Professor,” he called out, limping down the corridors of the magnificent school, “or else I can see it being the cause of yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to my amazing beta Mimifreed! You should 100% go and check out her work!! 💛💛


End file.
